My dear Cousin,
I have delivered the Faience. Just one of the Cups lost its Handle, otherwise all well. We miss you very much here, especially as we have had no News for quite some Time. Mrs. Frank in particular is losing her Mind here and constantly asks the same Messenger for some Response to her latest Letter to her Husband. For now, I am hosting her and her Daughter and two Servants, and we are all impatiently awaiting News about what you all have determined to do there. The worst Thing is that it is as if you had all fallen into some black Chasm, for I have been hearing that none of our converted Friends have had any sign of their Relatives in Warsaw, either. Is it this hideous Winter that has brought about some sort of Epidemic amongst the Officers of the Polish Post? Yet we are all keeping alive the Hope that it is a Question of the many Occupations you no Doubt all have there in the Capital.
I know moreover that we cannot count on an Audience with the King. I have my Trunks all packed and will join you there as soon as the Frosts let up, i.e., sometime in March I will get back on the Road, as currently the Horses’ Saliva would freeze to their Snouts. So for now, because of the Cold and a little bit of wintry Languor, I will leave everything to you, as I know you have such a good Head on your Shoulders, and you can handle the Temptations of the Capital.
I have been imploring Branicki and the Potockis to fully join in our Cause with adoptive Letters. I do know, however, that the Hetman is generally quite hostile to the Jews, and to Converts all the more so. The thing that angers People the most is their noble Ambitions. I have already heard that the whole Wo?owski Family has been ennobled, as apparently has Krysiński, that one with the Scar on his Face, who often writes to me. It is true that this also causes me some moral Discomfort, for how can it be—they have barely come into our World, and already they are climbing our Society and getting into our Government. We worked for Generations to get our noble Titles, and our Forefathers earned them with some real Service to our Fatherland, while with them it’s just a Fistful of Gold thrown onto the Table. Especially since it hardly befits a Noble to run a Brewery in Town, as one of these Wo?owskis is doing—someone will need to say something to him about it. I heard of it from my Cousin Potocka, who will marry off her son in January and has invited us to the Festivities. All the more Reason for not going back to Warsaw until Spring. I’m too old to be dragging myself over Snow and Ice this Way and that.
With this Letter I enclose two Letters from Lady Hana to Lord Jacob, and some Drawings by little Eva. Kindly Encourage that esteemed Gentleman to send her just a Line or two, lest she cry her pretty dark Eyes out, for she misses him so. She is such an exotic Woman, she has not yet grown accustomed to the Cold in our Homes here, nor to our Cuisine . . .
What is served for Christmas Eve dinner at Mrs. Kossakowska’s
A Christmas wafer star hangs over the Christmas Eve table. Two soups are served—almond and mushroom. There is herring in olive oil, sprinkled with chives and diced garlic. There are peas and puffed wheat with honey. There is kasha with mushrooms, as well as steaming dumplings.
A sheaf of grain has been placed in the corner of the room, and hanging over it, a paper star painted gold.
The guests give each other Christmas tidings, and they are all kind to Hana, speaking softly to her in Polish, now serious, now laughing. Little Avacha is perplexed and looks frightened, which must be why she does not let go of her mother’s dress. Hana gives little Immanuel to the nanny, the neat and clean Zwierzchowska. The boy squirms out of her arms to get to his mother, but he is too small to take part in the holiday meal; Zwierzchowska disappears with him into the back rooms of the Kossakowskis’ great estate. Unfortunately, Hana understands little of what is being said to her. She nods and smiles vaguely. The inquisitive gaze of her tablemates, disappointed by her silence, creeps greedily—so it seems to Hana—to five-year-old Avacha, who is dressed as beautifully as if she were a princess, and watches mistrustfully as this company warbles over her.
“I had no idea a human being could have such enormous eyes,” says Castellan Kossakowski. “She must be an angel, a forest fairy.”
It’s true that the child is uncommonly beautiful. Seemingly serious, but also wild, as if snatched out of some pagan, Arabian splendor. Hana dresses her little girl like a lady. She is wearing a dress the color of a blue sky over stiff petticoats, covered in white lace, and white stockings and little navy-blue satin shoes adorned with pearls. She won’t make it to the carriage in them, through all the snow. She’ll have to be carried. Before everyone sits down at the table, Castellan Kossakowski sets the little girl up on a footstool so that everyone can admire her.
“Curtsy, little Eva, my dear,” Mrs. Kossakowska says. “Go on, make a nice little curtsy, like I taught you.”
But Avacha stands motionless, stiff as a doll. The guests, a little disappointed, leave her in peace and sit down at the table.
Avacha sits beside her mother and looks down at her petticoats, carefully correcting the stiff hems of the tulle. She refuses to eat. Several dumplings have been placed on her plate, but they are already cold.
There is a silence between the next round of well-wishing and sitting down to table, but then the castellan makes a very amusing statement, and everyone laughs except for Hana. The interpreter they have hired, a Turkish-speaking Armenian, leans in to her and translates the castellan’s joke, but in such a chaotic way that Hana still has no idea what’s going on.
Hana sits stiffly and cannot take her eyes off Katarzyna. She is revolted by these dishes, although they look appetizing enough, and she is very hungry. But who made them, and how? How is she to eat pierogi with sauerkraut and mushrooms? Jacob has told her not to feel disgusted and to eat like everyone else, but these pierogi are a problem for her, she cannot swallow them—the cabbage has gone bad, it seems, and there’s a fungus on top. And what are these, she thinks, these pale noodles, this sickly color, with poppy seeds that make it look like they are covered in insects?
She revives when they bring in the carp, although instead of being encased in gelatin, it is baked. The smell of fish fills the room, and Hana’s mouth begins to water. She isn’t sure whether to wait until she’s served it or to go ahead and help herself.